


The Mortal Dance

by ivyspinners



Category: Tokyo Babylon
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Missing Scene, Tokyo (City), Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, very mildly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyspinners/pseuds/ivyspinners
Summary: "You were staring so closely I wanted to see too," said Seishirou. He was teasing, Subaru was sure. Seishirou tapped a finger on his chin. "Though murders and violence aren't my area of expertise, and I'd probably miss something."A case. An evening. An understanding reached for, during the year of the bet... and missed.
Relationships: Sakurazuka Seishirou/Sumeragi Subaru
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Mortal Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littledust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/gifts).



> Thanks to Ruth for beta'ing!

Kobayashi Hiroshi had been a middle-aged man, neither wealthy nor poor, neither attractive nor repulsive, in a suit that had seen better days, but wasn't tattered. The only unusual aspect was that he was deceased in a walk-in freezer.

If Subaru had passed him on the street, he probably wouldn't have picked him out from a crowd of thousands, but that didn’t seem right, so he looked again. There was an old-fashioned watch with straps once broken, but lovingly fixed as to be barely visible; scars like fanged bite marks on his wrists; a letter in his breast pocket that the police had labelled personal correspondence; a peony pin tucked under his collar.

Kneeling by the body, frigid air nipping at his cheeks, Subaru bowed his head.

A face bent right next to his, and he flinched minutely back until he recognized the curl of wavy hair.

"Seishirou-san," he said, and breathed out, relaxing. A breath of mist puffed out at his words.

"You were staring so closely I wanted to see too," said Seishirou. He was teasing, Subaru was sure. Seishirou tapped a finger on his chin. "Though murders and violence aren't my area of expertise, and I'd probably miss something. All I can tell is that Hiroshi-san's cat will miss him."

"His cat?" Subaru repeated, distracted for the moment.

"The fang marks on his wrist are from a cat, and each mark is years apart," said Seishirou. He indicated with the finger that had just been at his chin, hovering over the air to avoid disturbing the body. "These are faded and barely visible, these are still bright, and these last are barely scabbed over. It's the same cat over many years. His."

Seishirou-san was so smart, and kind too. He had noticed the personal detail immediately that Subaru had been searching for. Seishirou's eyes turned to his, a bright twinkle in them behind his glasses, and Subaru noticed that their faces were still so close, their noses could brush with the slightest movement. A flush threatened to rise on his cheeks. Seishirou's smile was very— the way his mouth curved—

Chains clinked behind them, and Subaru remembered where they were.

He leaned back to look again at the victim. There, under the man's right hand, were two kanji scrawled in blood, with a long streak beneath them as though he had meant to start a third, but couldn't manage. They were why he had been called. The two kanji — their most common meaning—神楽—

"Kami—Gaku," said Subaru, and connecting them together: "Kagura." A divine dance? Or simply entertainment? On occasions when he purified a shrine for the year, the miko might perform this ritual dance, a faint echo of Ame-no-uzeme's dance to entice Amaterasu from her cave. But what did it mean?

The freezer looked nothing out of the ordinary, with the chains and the meat carcasses in place, no musical instruments, no other symbols to channel power, no ofuda of any power. There were no wounds on Kobayashi's body, ritualistic or mundane.

"Do you sense anything, Sumeragi-san?" the detective asked. They'd met in the aftermath of Subaru's attendance at the MS Institute a few weeks prior, and had been respectful even then, though Subaru hadn’t completed the investigation.

Perplexed, Subaru shook his head.

"What will you do next?" asked Seishirou. When had he rested a hand on Subaru's shoulder? He hadn't even noticed, except that it felt good, warm where his knees and gloved hands froze, and he could almost lean into it.

"I'll purify the area, and let any spirits move on."

The cold house stirred as he sent his ofuda to the corners, warding in each direction so nothing might escape. Nothing even tried. The breeze was his power, making chains clink and rustle, and the sadness lingered, but any consciousness was gone.

When Subaru and Seishirou left, the police were still taking photographs at every conceivable angle, supervised by a harassed-looking man on the verge of retirement. The body would go to the medical examiner, and normally, family would be contacted, except that Kobayashi had none.

"No one in Tokyo?" Hokuto asked, once they were preparing for the evening meal. They had gathered in Seishirou's apartment, and she and Seishirou had danced gracefully around each other getting the necessities for dinner, while Subaru sat at the table, hands folded under his chin. They were on a timetable, with a concert to attend later in the evening, but this seemed to bother neither Hokuto nor Seishirou.

"No one in the country," said Seishirou. "At least not on their files."

"How sad," said Hokuto, handing chopped vegetables roots to Seishirou, for the stew. "Everyone should have someone to mourn them, when they're gone."

Seishirou nodded his thanks, turning to stir their ingredients into the stew. At this angle, half-visible, was the dip between his collar bones, revealed by his loosened tie and undone collar. The steam rising from there fogged his glasses, until Subaru couldn't see his eyes, and brushed his exposed skin until moisture gathered there. With each motion of his elbow, the muscle there was—was—

"Maybe there was a sweetheart, who wasn't on police records," said Seishirou. He shifted, and there was a pause. Seishirou-san was—Subaru lifted his eyes, and realized with a jolt that Seishirou had been waiting for him to look back. "Would Subaru-kun miss me if the worst were to happen? Have I found enough of a place in your heart?"

"No!" said Subaru, flushing. "I mean—nothing will happen to Seishirou-san. You're very capable and generous and who would want to hurt you?"

"I think, in Tokyo, it doesn't matter," said Seishirou. "It's enough to be a stranger in the wrong place, at the wrong time."

There was something about the half-smile as he said that, not resignation but a lack of any particular feeling, that made Subaru's heart sink to his stomach. Seishirou-san's glasses had cleared again; his eyes were sharp and curious. The air shimmered, hot spice and pumpkin wafting through the room. Subaru couldn't look away.

A glint of light over the glasses, a bright smile that swept away Subaru's fear. "Well, you'll save me if anything happens. Right, Subaru-kun?"

"That's right," Hokuto said firmly, brandishing her chopping knife. "Subaru would protect his husband."

"Hokuto-chan!"

"Dinner first," said Seishirou just as firmly, drawing Subaru's attention back. Subaru hadn't seen him move, but he was right next to Subaru now, fingers brushing Subaru's jaw, the glasses and lips and the dip of the collarbone filling his vision. A nail grazed the corner of his mouth. "Subaru-kun, would you like a taste?"

"Um," said Subaru. Seishirou-san's fingers were gentle, but Subaru wouldn't be able to break his grip if he tried. If he wanted to try.

"Open your mouth," Seishirou-san said, close enough that Subaru could see his lips shape the words, the gleam of sweat at his neck, a drop of stew in the corner of his mouth. Obediently, Subaru parted his lips, and got—

—a mouthful of stew, as Seishirou spooned it onto his tongue.

Hokuto had purchased tickets to Sato Rakuri's concert, and her enthusiasm was too much for Subaru to refuse, even if it meant changing into her newest design: a black undershirt that didn't quite tuck into his trousers, deep green trousers, and a jacket to match his eyes, embroidered with bows of the lightest olive. They'd planned to travel past the local dessert shop, to compensate Seishirou for his driving—even though Seishirou had insisted that he didn't mind.

"But I would never say no to more ice cream," he'd added, with a grin.

He closed the door behind him and jogged to the store, leaving the twins alone—in a sense. Lights from shops blazed into the car, even at night, and the chatter of shoppers was muted through the window, but a low background hum all the same. The shop they'd stopped outside had Sato-san's posters plastered all over the front: Sato Rakuri with her bobtail cat, hissing with near identical expressions; Sato-san and her aunt, a shrine miko who had adopted her niece; Sato-san dressed in a bright dress with long wings, a dark blue flower pin at her collar, with an equally angelic expression. One of the posters disappeared from view as Seishirou opened the door.

"I can never quite tell," murmured Hokuto.

"Hokuto-chan?" Subaru asked, turning away from the window; Seishirou had just entered the shop.

Hokuto smiled. It didn't quite reach her eyes. "You'll never be like Kobayashi-san, alone in a city like this."

"I have you, Hokuto-chan," said Subaru. She took his gloved hand in hers; their hands would have been perfectly identical, without the barrier of black leather.

"Not just me, Subaru," she told him. "Sei-chan cares for you. And you care for him."

"I... he’s a friend," whispered Subaru, eventually.

Hokuto's smile seemed to become, at last, real. But she didn't contradict Subaru. "Whatever you feel. You'll have us."

Subaru nodded. "I know."

They sat in comfortable silence until the car door opened again, letting in the honking cars, a piercing high-pitched scream, the overwhelming chatter, a cloud of the night's cigarette smoke; and then cutting it off once closed.

"Bad news, Hokuto-chan," said Seishirou. "The concert's been cancelled. Turn on the radio."

... _family reasons. This seems like an inadequate explanation so close to the concert, with fans having travelled from outside Tokyo to attend, but Sato-san's decisions must be respected. Reporters tracking her vehicle seem to confirm that she's going to—_

Hokuto's face had darkened as she listened, ready to erupt.

"I'm sorry, Hokuto-chan," said Subaru. "I know you were looking forward to this."

"Inadequate!" Hokuto huffed. "How can someone predict a family emergency? At least Rakuri-chan puts her family first."

With that, the car turned around and retraced the route back.

Not quite ten minutes back in Subaru's apartment, a piercing ring sliced through the air—Hokuto's phone, pitched so loudly, she would never miss it even here. Seishirou sat on one of the couches, while Subaru kneeled by the table to prepare tea for them both. When he'd first had to relearn this with gloves on, he had spoiled a pair with all the hot water, but now he found the process soothing. Simple.

"You're very good at this," Seishirou-san said. He'd left his position by the couch to kneel beside Subaru, and up close, his eyes were bright and interested.

"I've had a lot of practice," said Subaru. "I've worn these gloves for as long as I can remember, and Grandmother would not have approved of buying new ones every year."

He finished steeping the tea; now there was nothing to do, for a few minutes, but wait.

A hand brushed over his, their fingers interlacing. "Practice feeds grace, but it doesn't create it on its own. Subaru-kun must have very capable hands."

Not as graceful as Seishirou's, but Subaru wouldn't say that. Seishirou's hands were larger, his fingers longer and wider, and clasped Subaru's with such strength, making it difficult to pull away if Seishirou wanted to keep him trapped. If. Seishirou-san wouldn't do that. His grip was firm, but gentle; heat slid through leather like it wasn't there. Subaru felt every whisper of movement between his fingers like they left ghosts behind. What would it feel like, in that heat, to be ungloved, to feel—bare—

"Some friends from school are going for shopping therapy!" Hokuto's shout was muffled through their half-open door. "Will you be okay alone tonight, Subaru?"

"He'll be fine," Seishirou sang in reply. "I'll keep him company."

There was a shriek of laughter, and Hokuto's voice drifted away. He heard, in that echo of her laughter, her words not so long ago. _You'll have us._ Hokuto-chan did so much, keeping him from being alone, and Seishirou-san did too. He was glad that Hokuto had her friends, something entirely separate from him. Not everyone did. Some people had no one.

"What are you thinking about?" Seishirou asked, when Subaru had been silent for too long.

"The case today," said Subaru.

"There were no spirits, just humans," said Seishirou. "Many spirits in Tokyo need Subaru-kun, but not this case."

Subaru had only meant... "Hokuto-chan has other friends here." Wait, that didn't follow—

"But Subaru-kun will always mean the most to her," said Seishirou. There was a knowing smile on his face. "You don't need to worry about that."

"That's not it at all!" Subaru cried out. The smile slipped on Seishirou's face into curiosity; so clear and easy to see, when he could see Seishirou-san's eyes through the glasses. "I'm glad. I'm glad she has other people. I just wish everyone did."

He was leaning close enough to see Seishirou's expression—change—but as he puzzled it out, Seishirou's face smoothed and eyes dropped pointedly down, a reflection hiding his eyes. Subaru realized belatedly that their hands were still clasped, and he'd half-risen to lean closer into Seishirou's space. Seishirou's thumb drew a clear, firm circle on the back of his hand, and that felt—felt—

"Touch," said Seishirou. Um. Yes. Touch. What were they talking about, again? "Company, laughter. Humans can have food and water, but according to science, we can't survive without touch."

A gentle tug on his arm to pull him off balance—maybe an accident—but Seishirou-san's other arm snaked around Subaru's waist—and somehow Subaru had been drawn into Seishirou-san's lap, knees knocking, legs tangled awkwardly like the roots of two neighbouring trees. One of Seishirou's hands had slid around Subaru's back to clasp onto his side; the other still held Subaru's hand, drawing shapeless things on the leather.

Embarrassment rose to clog his throat. "S—Sorry, I'll just—"

"It's fine," said Seishirou-san, but of course he would say so, he was so kind.

Subaru tried to rise; couldn't, with his legs trapped between Seishirou's. The arm around his waist—it didn't give, didn't move—Seishirou-san was so strong, he had known, but it wasn't the same as _knowing_. It seemed impolite to fight against Seishirou-san, so Subaru relaxed.

He was enclosed on every side, folded into warmth. Five fingers pressing into his waist that he could feel through his jacket, five fingers laced through his, _stroking_ , his shoulder leaning against Seishirou-san's chest, Seishirou-san's lap supporting him. The room swam with Seishirou-san's heat, with spice, and beneath it all, the sweet enticement of cigarette smoke.

"Subaru-kun is so adorable," Seishirou murmured, a breath against Subaru's ear. "It's no trouble at all to hold you close. Do you want me to let go?"

"I—I—it’s—" Yes and no clogged in his throat, tripping over each other. He hung his head, battling his dizziness with Seishirou’s touch. Seishirou was—the hand on his waist brushed aside Subaru's jacket. Only the thin material of his shirt separated them, Seishirou-san's hand, tracing hot lines on Subaru's bare skin. His heart leapt to his throat. His shirt felt translucent, porous. It felt like nothing—no—that wasn't right—it was that Subaru _wanted_ —wanted—

One hand brushed circles on his palm. Skin separated by leather much too thick; by a shirt that was nearly nothing, in two points of touch. Seishirou-san's hand was so large, his fingers long and firm and elegant. He covered Subaru’s hip with the palm, and his thumb still reached the crease between his thigh and belly, and his fingers Subaru’s thigh.

When Seishirou's fingers dug in ever so gently, Subaru made a soft, keening noise at the back of his throat, beyond his control. His hips jerked involuntarily—wanted to squirm—but he couldn't move in that strong, iron grip, keeping him right where he was in Seishirou-san's lap, tucked in on all sides. _Held_ on all sides.

"If we all need touch, I wouldn't like Subaru-kun to die, untouched," said Seishirou-san, into—into Subaru's neck, because Subaru had raised it, bared it, involuntary like the twitch of his hips. Seishirou-san's nose was at his ear, his lips burning at the sensitive skin of Subaru's skin throat as he spoke, against Subaru’s pattering pulse.

Subaru couldn't get enough air—every mouthful smelled like Seishirou-san—when had he learned what Seishirou-san smelled like? But it smelled like him. "I wouldn't—"

Seishirou-san let go of Subaru's hand—no—moved down to his wrist, to the bare skin of his wrist. He stroked the veins where blood pushed its slow journey heart-wise. Teasing at the edge of the gloves, slipping just a fingertip inside where no one had touched him for years, the soft skin on the back of his hands that flared hot—a crippling, searing white.

Static filled his brain. Seishirou surrounded him in all directions, the grip on his thigh so _present_. Each time Subaru arched—was he still trying to get away? Or press closer?—lightning sparked through his muscles and down his spine, to merge with the heat in his belly. He couldn't move. Seishirou-san was so—strong—his fingers on Subaru's wrist—

"You wouldn't?" Seishirou-san repeated, deep and amused. His cheek rubbed Subaru's, and he made a low, considering noise that made Subaru clench everywhere. "You're blushing. Subaru-kun looks good in red."

"Um. I." Was it Seishirou-san's heat he felt, or a fever rising in his head, blood at his cheeks and rushing to his throat, making the walls shimmer and blur? What had they been talking about? "I wouldn't die—Hokuto-chan wouldn't let me—"

The hand around his wrist tightened with bruising force, the arm around his waist pressed like an iron bar into his side. Subaru gasped, wrist flaring with pain.

It didn't want to make him fight. His tendons and sinews tried to relax and flow, like water into a cup, into the shape Seishirou-san asked of him. A thin, half-strangled noise filled the room—that was _him_ —

Seishirou's grip clenched again until his bones ached. _He_ ached and burned, blood beating against every inch of skin.

But Seishirou-san must have heard his gasp, because after a moment he let go, disentangling their legs.

"Subaru-kun is right," Seishirou-san said, and that was—that was familiar, not the deep amusement but warm and reassuring, and—

Subaru was still on his lap.

He scrambled up, wishing he had a hat with this costume set, so he could hide his face. His hands would have to do; they pressed against his cheeks, his eyes. "Seishirou-san?"

"Hokuto-chan would never let you die," Seishirou-san said.

Subaru peeked through his fingers. The light had glinted off Seishirou's glasses again, his eyes hidden. "She wouldn't let you either."

A pause, a—a catch of breath, almost.

"Hokuto-chan has many talents," Seishirou said. "You're very lucky."

This was familiar ground. Subaru breathed out a long, low sigh of relief, and lowered his hands. He still — ached — but he could ignore it.

"I am," he said, and bowed his head.

He saw—oh, the tea.

It was probably too strong by now, but Subaru poured it for them, and gulped it down to try and cool off his cheeks.

It was five days later that Subaru had occasion to remember that night. Hokuto had been flipping through television channels. She stopped at a channel where Sato Rakuri was being interviewed by a bright, bubbly, pink-haired journalist. He let the noise wash over him, brush steady as he created more ofuda, trying not to look at where his wrist still ached, healing yellow-blue. He hadn’t slept well in days, waking constantly from dreams where Seishirou hadn’t laughed, where Seishirou’s hands had crept lower...

"Subaru! Subaru, leave your work for a second and—you need to see this."

He looked up.

In the corner of the interview, in a small, square blue box, was a photograph of Kobayashi Hiroshi.

"That's why I couldn't hold the concert on Friday," Sato-san was saying. "I didn't know him for long. My parents divorced before they knew about me, but six months ago, he met my aunt at her shrine. We were just getting to know each other."

"That must have been such a shock!" said the interviewer, wide-eyed.

"It was. The police had been looking through their files for hours, and they found the old wedding certificate where my aunt acted as witness." She looked at the camera; Sato-san had, when she wasn't smiling or singing, a very direct way of looking at you. "They'd thought he had no family to contact, and that he'd died alone. But he wasn't. Someone cared about him. He found me."

"How did he die? Am I allowed to ask?"

"It's not a police case any more," said Sato-san. "It was a heart attack. He wouldn't have been in pain long." She looked down, hiding her eyes. The interviewer and camera gave her a moment of silence barely long enough to be tactful.

"He must have been so proud of you," said the interviewer eventually.

"He was happy," Sato-san said, "to find a member of his family. I cared about him. And for everyone out there alone, who thinks there is no one left—someone will care about you again, some day."

The interviewer smiled. "Wise words."

The splash title came up, then vanished into a commercial break, and Subaru sat bolt upright. The kanji on the splash title, the show's name, then the guest's:

Rakuri. 楽莉.

 _Kagura_ , he remembered. 神楽. He had read them together. But the second kanji in Kagura—not gaku, but raku, for Rakuri. Not a divine dance; a mortal one. He'd written his daughter's name, or tried to start it, and had not finished. The tragedy felt like a knife on his side.

"A long-lost daughter," Hokuto said. She glanced at him. "When he died, he knew. His daughter loved him."

Their eyes met. Slowly, the pain melted away, replaced by another throb at his wrist.

And it was one of those brief, flickering moments when their minds seemed to touch, a thought shared between twins; her understanding became his.

"When he died," Hokuto said, holding his eyes, "he remembered someone he loved."

**Author's Note:**

> Kanji:
> 
> 神楽 -- Kagura, meaning "god-entertainment", a ritual dance in shinto  
> 神 -- Kami, meaning god  
> 楽 -- Gaku (Music); or Raku (comfortable/easy/enjoyable)  
> 楽莉 -- Rakuri, a girl's name


End file.
